Adjusted

Sometimes I run the streets, sometimes they run me -Morgan Parker 

I don’t know what I think I’m doing

Pretending I’m well adjusted 

Schooling with the white people 

Club on a Friday 

Laughing in the library

Flirting with young boys and old boys 

Yeah you can come see me 

Dinner’s some fancy Thai food 

I’ll show you I’m made of that material 

While deflecting get-to-know me questions about home, about my blessed kin

With a careless shrug and an empty sigh

Why would it ever matter 

You say I’m repressing, I say I’m adjusted

I’m accustomed, a compartmentalising queen

I’m over it 

I don’t talk shit to death

Wouldn’t you rather appreciate this lingerie 

Under my dutiful apron and reborn appearance?

So no, I don’t answer calls from the motherland, if I can help it

Would I ever go back there, if I could help it?

Nevermind baby, nevermind 

See, I’ll have you know

If I’m never fully here, then I’m never really there

Always knowing I’m too lucky, too too ungrateful 

Over here stuck in my head 

Trying to come off as comfortable, in my own skin, well-adjusted.

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